The first light of dawn seeped softly through the slats of the blinds, falling in thin, pale stripes across the rumpled sheets. I woke with an inexplicable lightness in my chest, a quiet warmth nestled beneath my ribs, like a secret being kept just for me. There was a smile playing unconsciously on my lips, slow and wide, as if the night had left an imprint on my very skin.
I turned toward the warmth beside me, expecting the familiar contours of a sleeping figure, the steady rise and fall of breath. But the space was empty, cold, and suddenly too vast. My lids fluttered open wider, blinking against the sting of disappointment that crept into my veins, flooding them with a sharp ache I hadn’t anticipated.
"Sophia?" I whispered into the silence, the single word breaking against the walls of the apartment like a fragile echo. The quiet slapped me awake, harder than I expected. Naked, I rose from the bed, the sheets rustling underfoot, and wandered through the stillness that felt suffocating.
In all my years, I never cared whether the women I had spent the night with stayed until morning. Nor did I ever feel the need to search for them after waking alone. Yet now, with every step in this unnervingly silent place, I was searching, not for a person, but for a trace of something I hadn’t known I needed.
Why did she leave so suddenly? Was it something I said? Did I make a mistake? My mind churned with questions I didn’t want to answer, hateful and unwelcome thoughts invading the corners of my consciousness, like an unrelenting tide.
I found myself in the shower, hot water pounding against my scalp, intent on washing away the remnants of the night—and of her. It was supposed to be nothing more than a careless encounter, a brief escape from the cold realities we both carried. I had told myself that, and she knew it too.
So why did her absence sting like a wound reopened? Why did I feel this gnawing disappointment that she had already vanished? Of course she would leave—there was no reason for her to stay. I tried to shove these thoughts down, scolding myself silently: Get over it, Lapley.
As I massaged shampoo into my hair, the scent sharp and familiar, my mind betrayed me. Behind closed eyes, I saw her again—the softness of her smile, the vulnerability shimmering in her grey eyes. The scalding water couldn’t cleanse her from my skin or my thoughts; she was everywhere, insistent and impossible to shake.
But she can’t be. She’s gone from my bed, from my apartment, and she must leave my mind too. No woman belongs here, not in the fortress I’ve built around myself. Bringing her here, letting her in, was a mistake. She yearned for a man who didn’t deserve her—Paul, that callous fool—and somehow her fragile hope managed to burrow beneath my hardened exterior.
Now, that hope is a torment, gnawing at my resolve, implanting doubts and desires. Why does it matter so much? Why do I care? The answer whispers cruelly: Because I do.
And therein lies the problem. I care, and I shouldn’t. I care when I have sworn not to. I care and it terrifies me.
I am Cade Lapley. I take what I want and discard what I don’t. I drink too much, sleep with too many, and care about almost no one but myself. It’s the legacy of my name, an inheritance of coldness and selfishness, a bloodline that taught me detachment and ruthlessness. We Lapleys take without remorse, we care without compassion.
So why am I so unsettled by Sophia? She will heal; she’s strong enough to mend her broken heart. I, however, am a man born damaged—scarred by neglect, shaped by cold wealth and colder love. My mother starved me of warmth, and in her place, I learned to shield my heart with ice. I can’t be what she needs; I’m not capable of love in the way she deserves.
In fact, I think even that worthless ex-lover is more deserving of Sophia’s tenderness than I could ever be. Perhaps that’s why I should be grateful she left me, that she ran—because if I were her, I would flee too, never daring to look back.
She sparked a glimpse of light in my frozen world, a brief flicker that warmed and blinded me. But I am selfish and broken. I must let her light shine elsewhere, in a world less cruel than mine. If she ever gave me a chance, I would only break her further, tear her apart with the sharp edges of my selfishness.
My heart is shallow—a barren wasteland where nothing ever flourishes. I have no room for love, no space for softness. I need to let go of last night, of Sophia’s vulnerable gaze and tender smile. I must erase them from my mind, cast them away like ashes carried off by the wind.
Yet my selfishness clings stubbornly, a defiant shadow refusing to release its grip. I wrestle with it, forcing it down with the bitter knowledge that letting go is the hardest battle of all—the fight not to hold on when every part of me aches to do just that.
The water slowed, warmth fading into cool. I stepped out, droplets tracing down my skin like tears I refused to shed. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I glanced once more at the empty bed—the echo of her presence still lingering in the air.
Outside, the city was waking, indifferent and relentless, moving on as if nothing had changed. But here, in the quiet apartment, I was caught between who I was and who I feared I could never be. Between the walls I built and the fragile hope she had ignited.
And as I dressed in silence, the weight of what had passed and what might never be settled heavily in my chest. The morning held no answers, only the cold truth that some boundaries, once crossed, burn longer and deeper than we expect.